I Remember
by Plushii
Summary: You can imagine this is Sirius or Remus, though I imagine it is Remus. This is based off of my real experience, having lost my husband to suicide. This is a deathfic.


**I Remember**

**By: **Plushii

**Author's Note**: Before you read this, I want you to understand that this story is very personal for me. It is "incomplete" because this is _my_ personal journey. I lost my 22-year-old husband, Travis, on November 5th, 2013 to suicide. I am asking that you be gentle with what you read, as every experience and emotion is what I have been going through since that very terrible night. I wasn't going to share this story, but I chose to with the hope that maybe this can save somebody else, knowing what those who are left behind must face. My husband told me in his letter, "Knowing what this is going to do to you is killing me," but I know he could never have comprehended the devastation he was leaving behind.

Please, if you are feeling suicidal, speak to somebody. People love you, and will do anything to make sure that you get the help that you need. Do not deprive them of your laughter, or your smile, or the sound of your voice; you may not feel like much, but somebody out there needs you desperately. If my story is not enough, you should read the experience of other suicide loss survivors on the Alliance of Hope forums. Remember: Most people who commit suicide have some kind of mental illness that is TREATABLE. Give somebody a chance to save you; give _yourself_ a chance.

* * *

_All of this time I knew that I'd be losing you.  
_

_That doesn't mean that it's okay, that doesn't mean I'm ready._

* * *

I don't remember making it down the hall. I don't remember how they told me, or what words they said, but I remember screaming. I remember screaming, and screaming, and not being able to scream loud enough. I remember the instant agony, the inability to catch my breath, and the absolute desperation to feel something inside or outside of me break - physically. Mentally, I was already in a thousand shattered pieces littering the ground.

I remember punching the walls harder, and harder, and harder. I remember the absolutely irrational anger at the fact that they wouldn't cave under my fists, and the moment when I willed even just myself to break if only something would. I remember my wrists being grabbed, and hearing somebody saying, "Don't let him hurt himself," and I remember the suggestion to give me something to calm me down. I remember screaming at them not to give me anything, to stay away, and repeating the words, "No", as if my denial would somehow bring you back.

But I don't remember how I got through that night, or the next day, or the day after that. I remember fragmented pieces of time when I tried to speak and failed at every turn. I remember trying to explain things to a coroner, but never what. I remember instances of losing every bit of control that I'd somehow managed to reign in, like when they said you'd left a letter and I found myself on the ground screaming again. I remember somebody getting down on the ground beside me, and holding onto me while I screamed, and telling me they were so sorry, but never that it'd be okay.

I don't remember how I got the strength to go to the funeral home, and walk into the room where I would have to decide how to bury you. I remember walking through the door that said "Serenity" and feeling no familiarity with the word. I remember looking at the urns neatly lining a bookshelf beside me as everybody filed in, and then I remember screaming again. Mostly I remember saying that I couldn't do this, and once again repeating the word "no". I remember the silence of those who didn't know me, and the hushed sobbing of those who did. I remember my family holding me tight, and my father telling me that he loved me, and he was so sorry, and that he was there with me. I remember him telling me that he would change it if he could, and I remember pleading with him to bring you back. I don't remember when I managed to stop crying long enough to listen to what the funeral director had to say, or to pick out your casket, or your flowers, or the urn and the box that you would be put into after your services were completed.

I remember being surprised when people would tell me the day, or the time, and having no ability to put things together in chronological order. I still don't know when some things took place, and I haven't yet found my way out of that bubble where time moves impossibly slow despite the world around me moving unstoppably fast.

I remember when they asked me if I wanted to go through your things, and not being able to focus or think long enough to know what I wanted to do. I remember them, eventually, doing it for me, and the agonized sobs when they found your real letter in a place you hoped I would look, but never that soon. I remember your words on paper clearer than I remember anything, and the absolute agony I felt at you still trying to make me laugh, even when you wrote this knowing you were leaving me forever.

I remember trying to speak to the coroner, like I had tried to speak to so many people before, and having to give the phone to one of my parents because they simply could not discern what I was saying between each hysteric syllable I managed on sobbing breaths. I remember desperation when they couldn't answer if they would give me back the original copy of your letter, and how much it hurt to see them take the one thing you had left for only me.

I remember when I began to piece things together; I remember when the looks you gave me, and the lies that I didn't realize were lies turned into lies you told me, and started to make eerie sense. I remember when I began to realize that you were planning this for a long time, and had meticulously carried out every step in a way that I wouldn't question, but for what? I can only think that you didn't want me to stop you, and that you didn't want help from anybody else either.

The questions still drive me mad: What were you thinking when you got on that bus knowing you were headed to the place that you were going to die? What did you think when you were putting that needle into your arm, filled with the substance that would ultimately end your life? Did you smile at the people you spoke to along the way? Were you laughing? Did you cry? Did you even, for just a moment, hesitate? Were you thinking of me? Did it hurt? Did you watch TV before, or did you simply check into your hotel room, and check out of this existence forever?

I remember having to pick a song to say goodbye, and struggling to find the perfect one. I remember when the day came, when we one-by-one walked into the church soon to be filled by family and friends, and when the funeral director grabbed me to tell me that I was a very strong man, and that I could come and say goodbye. I remember the dread as I walked past the threshold of your viewing room, and the bile that rose in my throat along with words of denial and weakness. I pleaded with nobody that I couldn't do this, but I found my strength again and walked up to see you.

When I saw you in your casket, I remember the acute rejection I felt thinking that it was really you. I remember flinching back, and hearing somebody screaming, but never realizing until my Dad caught me as I went for the floor that it was me. I don't remember when I stopped crying long enough to really see you, or even when, after what felt like hours of holding my best friend's hand, that I worked up the courage to say goodbye.

I remember the permeating cold that radiated off of you, and touching your arm that had once been so warm. I remember my revulsion at how you felt, and breaking the resolve I had made to kiss you one last time then. I didn't want to remember that kiss; I didn't want to dream about cold lips, and an unyielding body, so I touched your hair and refused to put my lips on yours. Your hair was the only part of you that still felt like you. I remember the blue around your fingertips, and then the strength that carried me from the viewing room, to the room where we held your funeral services.

I remember the song I chose making the entire room sob, and I remember being pulled into embrace, after embrace, with kind words and pouring eyes. So many people loved you and wanted the best for you, and you walked away from all of us.

I'm still in a haze; I can't remember simple things with ease, and my life has become a life of sticky notes and calendared reminders. I haven't experienced a single moment when I don't miss or need you desperately, and I'm still trying to remember how to breathe. I'm trying to find the person I was before all this, but they have been so thoroughly shattered that I can't figure out where the pieces go.

I only hope that I can forgive myself for not being able to save you one day, and that I can forgive you for never giving me a chance.

* * *

_Now I am less than what I was;_

_Whatever's left is yours now._

* * *

**Author's Notes**: The song is "When You Go", by Johnathan Coulton. Yes, this is the song that I used at my husband's funeral. Thank you for letting me share my experience with you, even if it's a rather incomplete, inadequate retelling. This was unbeta'd.


End file.
